Conscious Decisions of the Heart

by John Wiltshire

  Lucky. Ben blew out a small breath and turned away. He couldn’t bear it.

  It didn’t get dark until almost eleven at night now, being the peak of the summer, and Ben took every moment of daylight to work on his Danish, reading in the garden or occasionally watching television with Ingrid. He could understand the news quite easily. Shows left him struggling occasionally, but gradually, he could even understand most of what was being said in those.

  Texts from Nikolas were very sporadic now. They were travelling in places without good connections. Ben didn’t mind so much. It was worse, somehow, being reminded, having to lose him each time when their short communications were done. Last time, he’d asked his hopeful how is he and Nik had replied very sick.

  § § §

  Missing Nikolas began to resemble missing his mother in Ben’s mind. There was a similar sense of desolation and loneliness to not having Nikolas around as there had been for the first few months when he’d been unable to accept his mother’s desertion. He refused to give into the feelings, however. He wasn’t eight. If his frantic attempts to keep busy sometimes resembled a small boy running to the moors and living rough, searching desperately for unconditional love, then he ignored the similarities and told himself that at least keeping busy improved his language skills. Once he’d made a first foray into reading, he found this the easiest way to avoid thinking about Nikolas at the same time as becoming really proficient in Danish. He became an almost daily visitor to the library. Gabby was as good as her word and took him under her wing. She seemed to sense his wariness of the other, younger librarians (if not the provenance for such caution), particularly Amy, and always looked after him herself. Ben found her almost motherly presence completely restful and reassuring. It actually amused him to think of telling Nikolas, when asked, that yes he’d had girlfriends on Aeroe—an elderly widow and a spinster librarian.

  § § §

  Ben noticed the change in the sea first. One evening, walking in to start his swim, the cold hit him. He did his usual distance but getting out was unpleasant, and he jogged back to the house and into his room, glad to get into a warm shower.

  Ingrid mentioned it next, picking up some leaves from the lawn and saying wistfully, “We must think about getting wood in for the winter. It comes along every year more quickly.”

  Ben straightened, did a calculation in his head, and realised he’d been on Aeroe for three months. It was October. He hadn’t heard from Nikolas since the end of September.

  The days continued to pass in his simple routine. If he wasn’t running or swimming, he was working on his Danish, always Danish, reading, writing now, listening to the television and chatting with Ingrid. The Red Shoes were long forgotten. Now, following Gabby’s recommendations, he had a roomful of books. He’d rented some audio books as well and listened to them as he fell asleep, anything not to have to think about Nikolas.

  One day, Ingrid came up to him in the garden, watching him for a while. The days of just wearing shorts were well over. He was warmly dressed and working on raking the leaves. “Would you like to visit the Mikkelsen summerhouse? I’ve contacted the caretaker, Hans, and he offered to show us around it this afternoon. Of course, I taught him. Very silly boy, and he didn’t marry well. Dreadful Swedish woman—Agna. But one mustn’t speak ill of foreigners, I suppose.”

  Ben straightened and nodded. “I heard it was empty.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite. I don’t believe anyone has lived in it since Nina and her babies. But it’s well cared for. Too well, some say. God alone knows what Agna will do if anyone from the family ever wants to live there again. She seems to think of the place as hers. Which I suppose she would after so long.”

  § § §

  They drove over that afternoon. The estate was at the top of the island. They passed through forests and then emerged back again at the coast, and there it was, a large villa perched on a headland with formal gardens running down to the sea. The caretaker was waiting for them, introduced himself as Hans, apologised that his wife was home in Sweden visiting family, and began to chat to Ingrid as he led them through the courtyard to the door.

  Inside was like a scene from an old movie. Everything was covered in dustsheets and seemed to have a timeless quality to it as if the owners had just stepped out for a moment. Ben could understand Hans’s chatter quite well, but he wasn’t listening. He wandered around touching things Nikolas had touched, walking where he’d walked. He wondered whether, if he’d been here alone, he’d hear an echo of a young boy’s voice, high pitched, excited, running through his life with a zest for living until all the joy was taken from him.

  In one room, in a bay window, there was a grand piano. He pulled the sheet off and sat at it. He tapped a note. It was all he could do; his childhood hadn’t included piano lessons. But then it hadn’t included vicious sexual assault either. He closed his eyes. Everything ached for Nikolas now. Not just the physical things, which ached continually despite his extreme regime, but everything, his heart, his thoughts, his soul. With a clench of his jaw, he closed the lid and pulled the sheet back. “Spirit of place. I have felt it in places also.”

  If anywhere held the spirit of the Nikolas he loved, then this was the place.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  October turned seamlessly into November as it always does. One day, running in the woods, Ben smelt woodsmoke. He had to stop, hands on knees. He was almost sick at the overwhelming memory of another run, another smell of woodsmoke—and then a fire. Nate. He hadn’t thought about Nate for many months, but it was a year ago he’d died in Ben’s cottage. A year. Ben was thirty years old, but, at that moment, he felt defeated by age.

  Soon they had the first snowfall. Ben had spent the last few weeks chopping wood, a job he enjoyed, stacking the cords neatly under the eaves of the house. He had a fireplace in his room, and now evenings were spent reading Danish in front of the fire with Radulf and wine. It was safer this way. One evening, he’d foolishly accepted an invitation from Amy to her birthday party. It hadn’t gone well. Why could he not stay, indeed? She was single; he was single. She was offering. He was…desperate. He wondered later, when he’d made his pathetic apologies and left, whether if she’d been a man he’d have weakened or not. With men it was so much easier, both understanding the unspoken. Women, in his limited experience, didn’t. If he’d stayed and slept with her, she would expect more.

  The following day, in the library, he was very glad he’d been strong. She seemed relieved as well, and when Gabby wasn’t looking offered him a leftover slice of birthday cake. All his new girlfriends in the library seemed to think he wasn’t eating enough. He craved the attention and allowed their concern. He’d even let Gabby measure him up for a sweater she was knitting.

  § § §

  Toward the middle of November, while he was fixing shutters to the windows around the house, his phone buzzed. He yanked it out. Hello Ben

  His fingers were too cold to text, so his reply came out as where uck r u? He had to think for a while to remember the English.

  The reply came back very swiftly: not with u and that’s all I think about

  He groaned and sat down on the ice-covered chair. How is he? The inevitable question.

  He’s dead

  Ben sat back, hardly believing what he saw. He wasn’t sure what to text but decided to send I’m sorry. For you. Honestly

  Thank you. I kept promise. That all that important no?

  Keep one now and come home

  Soon. Have things must do first. Home 1st week December?

  December? No. Now!

  Maybe u have missed me?

  If u want 2 no how much have missed u come home.

  Irritating child. I c u soon.

  Ben tipped his head back and caught a stray snowflake on his cheek. It was time to go home. He couldn’t bear to tell Ingrid, so he didn’t. He continued to cut wood for the next few days so she’d have enough to last for a small apocalypse.

  On the third day
after Nikolas’s message, he went back to the Mikkelsen summerhouse. He called in to see Hans, but he wasn’t there so he talked to his little daughter for a while about mermaids and then about Radulf. At a suitable moment, he asked her where the keys to the house were kept. He wanted to say good-bye—to what, he wasn’t sure. But as someone who believed in fate, he also believed in omens. Something about Nikolas’s last communication had set the hairs on the back of Ben’s neck rising and had caused him sleepless nights. He couldn’t shake the terrible feeling he wouldn’t see Nikolas again, that the vast and awful country which had once swallowed the little boy had finally taken the man.

  The house was slightly different than he remembered from their earlier visit. Some of the timeless quality had gone. Hans had taken the dustsheet off the piano and lit a fire to keep the damp of the bitterly cold day out. Ben wanted to see the bedroom. Here again, some of the sheets had been pulled off the bookcases. He wandered around, looking at fossils and globes, models and books. Now he could read the titles. Above one bed, someone had thrown knives at the wall toward a hand-drawn target. It was not as accurate as the throwing he’d seen on a T-shirt in another time and another place. He guessed Nikolas had had some practice since he was a little boy named Aleksey.

  He replaced every sheet with great care and went out, locking the house behind him. On a whim, he went down through the gardens toward the sea. This was the way Aleksey must have gone every morning to swim. Now the sea was extremely unappealing; Ben hadn’t swum for weeks. There were signs of ice forming at the edges as he walked along from the villa toward a small boathouse.

  Something caught his eye in the sea. He braved the wind and turned, squinting. Unbelievably, he could make out the shape of a man swimming. It seemed impossible. Flakes of soft snow were falling on the grey sand. Radulf’s coat had a speckling like white spots. He watched the man, worried for him. He was coming into the shore. Eventually, he reached shallow waters and stood, emerging totally naked from the ocean. Ben squinted. The man was tall, deeply tanned and very muscular. He had very short hair, shaved at the back and sides but left longer on the top, and the long strands fell into his eyes. He lifted his hand and swept them back impatiently as he strode from the freezing water.

  “Nikolas?” There was no way he could fail to recognise that gesture, despite the man being almost a stranger. It seemed Radulf agreed. He began to bark and fetch unpleasant offerings from the high tide mark to give to this apparition of salt and freezing air.

  The man looked over at them. “Ben?”

  “What the―?” He didn’t know the word for fuck in Danish, having lived with an elderly schoolteacher. “How are you here? What―? When―? I mean― Oh, my God—Nikolas?”

  Nikolas came fully out of the water and embraced him, icy cold, so strong, so…different. He frowned, held Ben off. “Are you speaking Danish?” he asked in Danish, so Ben replied in the same language.

  “Yeah. I am. For you. It was supposed to be a surprise. What’re you…? I mean…Christ. Look at you! What’ve you done?”

  Nikolas laughed and continued in the now shared language, “I started to eat. For you. It was supposed to be a surprise. And then I started to swim and run, and now I’m very fat!” He grinned, knowing just how superb he looked. Every muscle was beautifully defined. He must have weighed at least twenty pounds more than the last time Ben had seen him—and it was all muscle. He wasn’t quite as muscular as Ben, but there wasn’t much difference. Suddenly, Ben realised Nikolas had started to shiver. He ripped off his jacket and wrapped it around him. “Fuck.” Sometimes English was such a good language.

  Nikolas switched to English, too. He grabbed Ben’s arm and dragged him toward the boathouse. By the time they got there, he was pretty incoherent in any language and had to be helped to dress in the clothes he’d left in a pile. He handed Ben back his jacket and dressed him in it, zipping him up and pulling up the collar. Then he stayed his hand and put it to Ben’s cheek. He frowned, dragging his thumb across the stubble; he ran his fingers up through the very long, black hair; put his thumb back to Ben’s face, to his lips, pulling the bottom one down; he put a finger to Ben’s green eyes, making them close one at a time; then combed the hair once more.

  Ben caught the roaming hand, held it off, then came very close and kissed Nikolas’s cheek, then his forehead, then lower, his lips. Nikolas opened his mouth to the kiss, and they were back, everything recognised and known, everything just as it had once been with no secrets or distance between them.

  Ben’s hand went almost automatically to Nikolas’s jeans, but Nikolas caught it, holding it still. “I’d lie you down, min skat, and take you from now until the end of time but…it’s cold?”

  Ben hugged him instead, nodding. It was all he could do coherently.

  It wasn’t until they returned to the house and Nikolas had built the fire higher that Ben had the time and space to fully understand Nikolas was back, Nikolas was fine—more than fine. He couldn’t believe how young, how healthy he looked. Nikolas obviously sensed Ben’s intense scrutiny as he brought some beer over to the fire and sat down, cross-legged across from Ben, for he kept casting him small, amused glances. He handed Ben a bottle. “Tell me what you’re doing in my house, Benjamin Rider.”

  Ben took a swallow of beer. “Fate.”

  “Ah. You’re very lucky with your fate.”

  “I am. What’re you doing here?”

  “I came to arrange for everything to be sold. New beginnings. It was time.”

  “Sold? Why?”

  Nikolas shrugged. “It’s all old history now. I have a new life.”

  Ben nodded, saddened for some reason, but he sensed this wasn’t the time or place to argue. “So…” Nikolas switched to Danish and fired off rapidly, “How long have you been on the island; where are you staying, and how good is your Danish really?”

  Ben raised an eyebrow and fired back just as fast, “My Danish is absolutely perfect, thank you, and I’ve been here since you left, and I’m staying with an old teacher of yours, Ingrid Paterson.”

  Nikolas began to laugh and declared in English, “Your accent is absolutely horrible.”

  Ben took a breath of outrage to argue but decided to kiss Nikolas instead. They weren’t cold now. Nik pulled away just long enough to lock the door, and then he returned, shedding his clothes as he came toward Ben. Ben stood, and when they came together, he couldn’t find enough skin to touch, enough time to breathe between the kisses, and then not enough words to say in any language how much he needed what they were doing. It was over the first time far too quickly. He was slightly embarrassed but laughed when he realised such eager spill only provided answers to questions he’d not yet dared to ask.

  Nikolas just looked ruefully at Ben’s belly and said, “So, you can see, I’ve had no fun; being so fat, no one wanted me.”

  Ben ran his hands across Nik’s ridged, hard abdomen and up across his broad, strong chest. He levered himself up and lay on Nik, propping himself up on one elbow. “Was it very bad?”

  Nik turned his face. “Yes. I wouldn’t wish to be that sick, ever.”

  “It scared you.”

  Nikolas turned back, frowning. “I’m afraid of nothing. What do you mean?”

  Ben gave him a look. “It scared you into eating and taking care of yourself, maybe?”

  Nik pursed his lips. “I’ll never smoke again, that’s for sure.” He switched to Danish. Ben wasn’t even sure if he noticed. “And you, why is your hair so long and all this stubble? Kissing someone with stubble is very…”

  Ben helped him assess what it was for a while until Nikolas held him off. “Restorative must be the word I was looking for.” He rolled them, lifted Ben’s thigh and entered him for the first time in so many months. Ben arched in pain, crying out. Nik put a hand lightly over Ben’s mouth and continued until the cries turned to ones of pleasure and Ben licked along the palm and bit the finger. Nikolas eased up for a kiss, gentling his strokes, running his han
ds over Ben’s warm skin. “That’s what I wanted to know.”

  Ben nodded, understanding. Then Nikolas made it very good for him, holding him just on the brink of coming, catching with the head of his cock the place inside that made Ben’s pulse rise and his whole body coalesce to one point, one gradual, inexorable climb to intense pleasure. He came first, his cock jerking unrestrained on his belly, shooting small jets of milky white fluid onto his tanned skin. Watching the spill, Nikolas swore softly and stilled, arched and taut, and released as well, deep into Ben’s body. He eased himself down onto the sticky mess on Ben’s belly. They were face-to-face, hearts still racing, breathing deeply. Nikolas returned his palm to Ben’s stubble, rasping it some more then laid his head down very slowly on Ben’s chest. Ben heard a chuckle and pulled the blond head up with a questioning look.

  Nikolas shrugged. “I can no longer tell you all the things I feel about you, for you’ll understand my Danish.”